Eliza Knight's Blog, page 45
December 12, 2012
New Release! The Highlander's Lady by Eliza Knight (Giveaway!)
I'm thrilled to announce the release of the 3rd book my Stolen Bride series, THE HIGHLANDER'S LADY!
ABOUT THE BOOK...A Highlander tamed…
Laird Daniel Murray seeks adventure, battle and freedom for his countrymen. Putting off his duties as laird—with a promise to his clan he’ll return come spring—Daniel sets off with his men to fight alongside William Wallace and the Bruce. But soon he stumbles across an enchanting lady in need. She tantalizes him with an offer he simply can’t refuse and a desire he attempts to dismiss.
A lady’s passion ignited…
Escaping near death at the treacherous hands of a nearby clan, Lady Myra must find the Bruce and relay the news of an enemy within his own camp. Alone in a world full of danger and the future of her clan at stake, she must trust the handsome, charismatic Highland laird who promises to keep her safe on her journey—and sets her heart to pounding.
Together, Daniel and Myra will risk not only their lives, but their hearts while discovering the true meaning of hope and love in a world fraught with unrest.
EXCERPT--ALL of Chapter One!
Chapter One
Early DecemberHighlands, 1297
A loud crash sounded from below stairs, startling Lady Myra from her prayers. What in all of heaven was that?She’d been sequestered in the chapel for most of the morning—penance for her latest bout of eavesdropping.The chapel was dark, lit only by a few candles upon the altar. A fierce winter gust blew open the shudders, causing the candle flames to waver. Myra rushed to the windows, securing the shudders once more, feeling the wood rattle against her fingertips.Her stomach muscles tightened with unease. There were not often sounds like this at Foulis. In fact, she’d never heard such before.The very floors seemed to shake. Imagination going wild, she pictured the boards beneath her feet splintering and falling through to the great hall below.Myra kept a keen ear, waiting for a sign that would reassure her that nothing was amiss. For once she hoped to hear her older brother, Laird Munro, railing at the clumsy servant who’d dropped something, but there was nothing save an eerie silence. The hair along her neck rose and with it, her skin prickled as an acute sense of dread enveloped her.The castle was never this silent.“Astrid?” she called out to her maid—but there was no reply. Not even the scurrying of her servant’s feet across the floor. Where had the maid gone? She was supposed to wait for Myra outside the chapel door. “Astrid!” she called a little louder this time, but still there was no reply.’Twas as if she were alone, but that made no sense. Foulis Castle was always bustling with people. Unable to stand the silence, Myra scrambled to her feet. She lit a tallow candle by the hearth to light her way in the darkened corridor and slowly crept toward the door of the family chapel. Nothing but a whisper of a breeze from her gown disturbed the areas where she passed—’twas how she was able to eavesdrop so often. Locked away, supposedly for her own good, since she was a girl, she learned an important lesson. If she were to find out anything of import, she had to be secretive and slick, so she learned to creep.She did so now with practiced ease, sidestepping boards known to creak and pausing every few moments to listen for sounds. She strained to hear a whisper, someone’s breathing, anything that would assure her that she had in fact let her imagination get the best of her. But there was nothing.Fighting hard to keep the fear from suffocating her, she reached the door, and with tortured slowness gripped the cool iron handle. She wanted to throw it open, and ignore the dread that held her hand still. But she had to trust her instincts. Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it.Myra leaned in close, pressing her ear to the frozen wood. She remained motionless, listening. Again silence. Satisfied there was no imminent threat, she began to open the door. An earth shattering shriek and another loud crash broke the silence. Myra slammed the door. Was that…? She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Scrambling away from the door, she dropped her candle which snuffed itself out. God’s teeth! Was that a battle cry? Granted, she’d never heard one before, but ’twas not just any shout. Nay, this sound was terrifying. A cry that sent her knees to shaking and her lip to bleeding from biting it so hard.She could barely see, the candles at the altar weren’t putting off enough light. What in blazes was she supposed to do? How would she protect herself? Damn those guards. Why hadn’t there been any warning? Shouts of caution. Why hadn’t the gates been closed?Was it possible that she’d just not heard the warnings? She had been deep in prayer, worrying about her sore knees, and to add insult to injury she’d needed to use the privy for hours. Had she been that preoccupied? Angered? So distracted that if someone had shouted in her ear she probably wouldn’t have heard it? She took a deep breath to figure out her next course of action.The secret stairways! Lucky for her, the chapel was located in a tiny corridor off the gallery above the great hall. A hidden stair, inside the chapel, led up to the master’s chamber. Embarrassed after her penances—which were often, Myra chose not to venture into the great hall, instead she preferred to use the hidden stairs. She knew them well. All of them. When she was just a girl, her father had shown her where they were located, and when she’d once found them fun, she now found comfort in their obscurity. Now they would not only help hide her embarrassment but they might even save her life.Myra did regret being sent to Father Holden for having listened in on a very private and political conversation. Her ears burned from hearing all the things he and his allies had said.Worry consumed her.But this was no time to think back on that conversation. Or was it?There’d been a warning. Rumors of an impending attack. But who would attack Foulis? Any why? Such an act was foolish. They had excellent fortifications. A stone gate tower was built at the front of the castle walls, with at least a half dozen guards on watch at a time. Her brother Byron made sure the gate was always closed, and most often barred. Their walls were thick and she’d thought impenetrable. If they were being attacked, there should have been fair warning. The guards could see all around the castle. No hidden spots for an enemy to hide. Her brother’s retainers kept guard upon the walls and the lands. This she knew—so how?Then Myra remembered— from a neighboring clan, Laird Magnus Sutherland had told her brother that they suspected an attack would come from a trusted ally. There would be no warning. Anyone could be the enemy. Except Magnus had warned of one.Ross.Upon her father’s deathbed this past spring, he’d signed a betrothal contract between Myra and Laird Ross—despite Ross being old enough to be her father. Myra and Ross’ daughter, Ina—who made Myra want to pull her own hair out—were the same age. Myracrinkled her nose. Wasn’t it wrong to be the stepmother of a woman who shared her birth year?Myra’s reaction to the news of her betrothal had garnered her a penance too—three days in a hair shirt and her skin had been so irritated she’d not been comfortable in even the softest linen chemise Astrid could find for her for nearly a fortnight.Could it be him? Was that how the enemy had gained entrance without warning? If ’twas Ross, the he probably tricked everyone into thinking he’d come to discuss the impending alliance between their two clans. Byron wouldn’t have suspected an attack—despite the warning—he was too trustworthy.Myra backed toward the center of the room. Faint cries of pain floated through the floorboards. Fear snaked its way around her spine and threatened to take away her mobility. She grabbed the wooden slat leaning against the wall to bar the door. The candles flickered. Whoever was downstairs was not here for a friendly visit. Heaven help her. They would leave no room unturned. Myra prayed her brother and his wife, Rose who was heavy with child, were safe. That Astrid was hunkered down somewhere with the other servants. She covered her ears from the cries of pain and anger. There was little doubt the enemy was causing great destruction.“Zounds!” Myra tamped the candles on the altar, putting the chapel into shadows and stalked toward the tapestry of a great wildcat on the hunt. She flipped back the covering, not even a speck of dust to make her sneeze since she used it so often. Pressing on the rock that opened the hidden door, she slipped into the black, closing the door behind her. Silent, she welcomed the comfort of nothingness as she slid her feet along the landing until she reached the first step. Finally something positive had come from her many penances, after using this particular staircase at least a thousand times, she knew the exact measurements of each step. The depth, the height. They fit her feet perfectly now.Fingers trailing over the dusty, crumbling stone walls, she made her way carefully but briskly down the stairs until she reached the wall behind her brother’s study. She peered through the imperceptible crack in the wall where she often stood to listen—as she had just the day before. The room was lit by a few candles as though her brother had been there, but he was not now. The room was empty and undisturbed.Where was he? And Rose?Myra’s unease was slowly turning into an acute fear. She refused to let her nerves take over. There had to be another explanation. They couldn’t be under attack. She refused to believe it. Her mind skipped over every other possibility. Perhaps the men were involved in another round of betting. Fighting each other to see who could best who. That made sense. All the servants would be crowded in the minstrel’s gallery above to watch, and the great hall would be a raucous room full of shouting, sweating, swearing warriors.That had to be it. A mock battle of some sort.Yet, this felt different. Every nerve in her body strained and her teeth chattered with fear. Why was she reacting so physically when it might possibly be nothing more than a bit of rowdy warrior fun? Her overactive imagination? Probably. But, she would have to see for herself. Myra continued along her path, winding down and nearly to the great hall when she heard a distant whimpering. Nothing more than a whisper of a sound, but in the complete and silent dark, it was telling. Recalling the number of steps she’d taken, she calculated that she must be just outside Rose’s solar. She ran her hand along the wall searching for the small metal handle, then nudged the door an inch ajar. It was indeed Rose’s solar, and the whimpering was coming from inside, but she couldn’t see who it was, since the doorway was hidden behind a bureau that was pushed against it.Myra listened for a few moments longer to discern if there was only one person in the room. It had to be Bryon’s wife. “Rose?” she whispered.The whimpering stopped.“Hello?” came the tentative voice of her sister-by-marriage.She called to her softly, “Rose, ’tis Myra.”A scuffling, like shoes scooting across the floor sounded within the room. Within moments Rose’s tear-stained face peered through the crack. Her brown eyes were red rimmed and her fiery curls jutted in frantic wisps from her head.“Myra!” she whispered frantically. “Ye must help me. They’ve come. I think they killed Byron. Everyone.”“Who? Wait, help me push this door open, ye must come in here.”Rose shook her head. “They are tearing the castle apart as we speak. If I come in there, then they will too.”Myra’s sister-by-marriage was right. It would be impossible for them to put the bureau back in place. They had to escape unnoticed. The secret passages were the only way—and they had to remain concealed. “Can ye get to Byron’s library? There’s a passage through the hearth.”Rose looked about frantically, as if expecting the door to her solar to bang open at any moment. She nodded, fear filling her eyes.“I will meet ye there. Go. Quickly.” Myra reached her fingers through the door and gripped Rose’s, hoping to give her some measure of comfort. “I will be there waiting.”Rose nodded again, squeezing Myra’s hand with trembling fingers.“I’m going now, Myra.”There was silence and then a creak as Rose opened the door. For several agonizing heartbeats, Myra waited. Waited for Rose to be struck down. Waited for the sound of shouts as she made her escape. Waited for something horrifying to happen. But there was nothing.Myra counted to thirty, slowly, with even breaths, and then she ran back up the dark winding stair until she reached Byron’s library. Peeking through the crack, she determined the room was still empty. With trembling fingers she found the hook in the wall, and slid her finger through it yanking and twisting until the lock unlatched and the wall opened behind the hearth. The library’s hidden door was heavy, but not as heavy as it could be. Made from plaster to look like stone, it was a perfect disguise within the wall. Ashes from the grate stirred and made her cough. She hid her face in her cloak to stifle the sound, and muttered a prayer of thanks for no fire being in the hearth.Her heart felt as though it would explode, racing like sheep hunted by wolves. Myra crouched low to wait for Rose, hoping that should the enemy enter she’d have time to shut the hidden door without their notice.Dear God, let Rose make it here safely.Now she knew for certain, the castle was under attack. None of it seemed real. Fear prickled her skin. Why would anyone want to attack her home? And Byron couldn’t possibly be… “Nay,” Myra whispered with a shake of her head. Byron couldn’t be dead. Just couldn’t.Her breath hitched and panic threatened to take over, but she willed herself to calm. Willed herself to stay strong for Rose and her unborn niece or nephew’s sake.What felt like hours later, but in reality was probably only minutes, the door to the library crept open. Myra bit her lip hard, expecting to hear the scrape of booted heels on the wooden planks, but there was only a whisper of slippers. Rose.“Myra?” her sister-by-marriage called softly.“I’m here.” Myra scrambled out of the hidden door in the hearth, bumping her head on the oak mantel. “Come, we must hurry.”Rose didn’t hesitate. They were through the secret door, the last inch closing when the main door to the library crashed open. Rose jumped beside her, letting out a strangled squeak. Myra reached up, finding Rose’s lips in the dark and pinched them, indicating silence.Rose nodded, and gripped Myra’s hand with deathlike force.Myra did not want to wait and see if those who’d entered happened to notice the wall shift when she’d closed it the remainder of the way, and so squeezing Rose’s hand, she urged her down the steps.Where she’d been able to fly in the dark before, she now had to tread lightly. Rose was already off balance with her huge belly, and not being used to the darkened stairs was made all the more unstable.Myra prayed constantly, a litany in her mind, for the enemy to not follow, and luck must have been on their side because they made it to the door leading into the dungeon without one of the evil villains following.She stopped and gripped Rose’s shoulders. Although she couldn’t see her face, Myra stared in that direction.“Listen now, sister. Ye must hide in here. They willna find ye. I promise.”“Where?”“The dungeon.”From the shudder of Rose’s shoulders, Myra imagined her shaking her head hard.“Ye must. If they find these tunnels, all is lost. But within the dungeon, they’d not find ye there.”“Where are ye going?”“I have to find Byron.”“Nay! Ye canna! He’s dead!” Panic seized Rose’s voice, and she appeared to be on the very verge of hysterics.“Shh… Ye dinna want them to hear us. I willna tarry long. But I must see if he lives.”Rose sobbed quietly and pulled Myra in for a hug. They stood for as long as Myra would allow, which wasn’t nearly long enough, before she pushed the dungeon door open and guided Rose inside.“Hurry back,” Rose said, her voice cracking.“I will.”Myra wasted no time rushing back up the stairs to the great hall. Peering through the hole, she saw nothing but destruction.Bodies with blood flowing. Furniture turned and tossed. Food and wine mingled with the blood upon the floors and tables. Even a few of the dogs had been slaughtered. The dogs. Why would anyone slaughter an innocent animal? Tears pricked her eyes, but she willed them away. What did the enemy have to gain? She kept asking herself that question over and over and still didn’t have an answer.The enemy still lurked within the room. A few warriors she didn’t recognize boasted of their heinous glory while another maniacally abused the body of a dead servant.Bile rose, burning the back of her throat. There was no way she could get inside without being seen.“Myra.” Someone grabbed her ankle, tugging.A scream bubbled up her throat, threatening to wrench free, when logic filled her mind with the sound of her brother’s voice. Weak and pain-filled.Myra crouched before she collapsed to the ground, patting the stone stairs until she felt the slightly cold flesh of her brother’s hand. She scooted close, her knees pressing against his side, feeling his shuddering breaths keenly.“Byron, what’s happened? How did ye get in here?” she whispered.His breathing was labored and she was surprised she hadn’t heard him before.“Ross attacked…” He breathed deep, his lungs rattling. “Just as Sutherland said he would. I crawled into the tunnels…hoped you’d taken Rose…was trying to find…her.”Part of the conversation she’d overheard… Myra squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry, wishing this nightmare away. Her brother was badly injured. Her people slaughtered. The enemy waiting with glee for her to show her face.“Why did he attack?” she asked.Byron squeezed her fingers, but even his grasp was feeble.“They are not our allies. They are allies of England.”Myra’s stomach turned. She swallowed hard as her worst fears came true. And she was supposed to marry the bastard. Shaking her head, she gripped Byron’s hand hard. There was no time for her to dwell on it now. She had to help him.“Come, let me help ye. We must patch up your wounds. Where are ye hurt?”“There’s no use for it, sister. I’m going to die…”For what seemed like a lifetime, there was silence. Her heart felt like it’d been ripped from her chest, and the fear of her brother passing before she could say goodbye collided with her senses.“Nay. Nay, we will bring ye down to the dungeon with Rose. She’ll help me.”Byron chuckled softly. “Ye’re a good woman, Myra. As much as ye’re a pain in the arse. But ye must leave me here. I need ye to do something for me.”Tears stung her eyes, and if she could see, her vision would be blurred. “What? Anything, tell me.”“I need ye to see Rose safely to the Sutherlands. And then I need ye to deliver a message.”The Sutherlands were their allies, and to be trusted. The chief himself had been involved with William Wallace at Stirling Bridge, a major reason for their victory. He’d been the one to warn of the Ross treachery. Rose would be safe within their walls.“I will.”“Ye must find Robert the Bruce. He is…”Byron’s voice trailed off again. Time was running short. She could only pray he would last long enough to give her the full message. “He is at Eilean Donan… Not safe. He’ll never be king if… Ye must tell him about Ross. Tell him that there is an enemy within his camp…tell him Ross is in league with the English and plans to kill him.”Myra shuddered. King Edward, better known as Longshanks by her kin, was responsible for this war. He wanted to scour the Scots from their own land, the greedy bastard. She’d lived in fear nearly her entire life. The Sassenachs were monsters that lived under her bed, crept in the shadows of her nursery as a child, and even now when she felt as though she was being watched it was by one of the demon English.With William Wallace fighting alongside the Bruce, they’d won the Battle of Stirling Bridge—a major victory for the Scots—and it emerged that her country might indeed gain their freedom from English oppressors. But not if they were being undermined from within. Not if Ross gave away their secrets and whereabouts.Damn him!“Tell Rose I love…” Byron’s voice trailed off and Myra felt him shudder against her knees.Myra shoved her anger to the back of her mind, concentrating on her brother’s last ragged breaths. A sob slipped from her throat and she collapsed onto his chest, hugging him, trying to push her warmth into him, trying to bring him back from death. All around her on the floor, his warm sticky blood flowed.But ’twas no use. Byron was gone—and at the hands of a man she despised. An enemy of her country. An enemy of her family. A man she vowed to never marry. Not in this lifetime, nor in the next. She would see Rose to safety and then she would see to the demise of Ross—tell the Bruce of the traitor’s existence.Myra slipped her brother’s ring from his finger, the one made of gold and onyx, a symbol of the Munro clan chief and shoved the ring into her boot. With a start she realized what Byron’s death meant.Myra was chief.“Dear Rose, please birth a son.”She didn’t want to be chief. Had no idea how to run a clan.Cradling her brother’s head, she laid him down gently, giving him one last kiss on the cheek. She swallowed her fear, clear on what had to be done. Conviction straightened her spine as she stood. As chief of Munro—for hopefully only a month or so longer—she would see this deed done.Myra raced down the steps to the dungeon, finding Rose where she’d left her.“We must make haste.” Her voice came out harsher than she intended, but Rose made no comment on it.Pulling Rose back into the darkened corridor, they made their way farther down the stairs.“We will have to crawl through here. Think ye can manage?”“Aye,” Rose said. She didn’t ask what Myra had found and her voice too grew harder as though she knew her husband was dead.Myra could not imagine how Rose felt. To be left so soon by her husband and a bairn on the way.They crawled through the last tunnel, the weight of the castle above them. The stones were slick and bits of debris littering the floor jabbed into her palms.Ye can do this. Myra repeated the words in her mind a thousand times, and with each recitation, she felt a little stronger.When they neared the end of the tunnel, a bright light slipped through a crack of stone, beckoning them forward. A breeze whistled through the crack sending wintry chills up and down her limbs. ’Twas cold outside… Traveling would not be easy.“We’re almost there,” she called to Rose who crawled behind her.Rose let out a little grunt.“Keep that bairn inside ye.” Myra had the sudden horrific thought that Rose might go into labor from all the stress of the day on her mind and body.“He’s to stay put,” Rose panted from the exertion of crawling.“Let us pray ’tis a boy.”They at last reached the end where there was room to stand. Myra helped Rose up, her legs wobbly.“When we leave this cave, we will have to keep close to the walls, and ye’ll need to stay hidden while I fetch us a horse.”“Nay!” Rose shook her head vehemently. “The attackers are sure to be out there.”“Aye. But what choice do we have? We canna stay here and wait for them to find us.”In the sliver of light coming from the hidden entrance, Myra could make out Rose’s eyes shifting about in thought.“We shall walk into the village and get a horse from there,” Rose offered.Myra shook her head. “Most likely they’ve burned the village, or at the very least are looting it. I’ll not have us stuck there.” Myra pressed a steady hand to Rose’s belly, feeling the child kick within. A surge of protectiveness filled her. “Or be killed. We will see my brother’s heir to safety. Ye and I together.”“I trust ye.” Rose nodded, her eyes wide. “I do.”“All right, then, ye stay here. If I’m not back within a quarter hour, run.”
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ABOUT THE BOOK...A Highlander tamed…Laird Daniel Murray seeks adventure, battle and freedom for his countrymen. Putting off his duties as laird—with a promise to his clan he’ll return come spring—Daniel sets off with his men to fight alongside William Wallace and the Bruce. But soon he stumbles across an enchanting lady in need. She tantalizes him with an offer he simply can’t refuse and a desire he attempts to dismiss.
A lady’s passion ignited…
Escaping near death at the treacherous hands of a nearby clan, Lady Myra must find the Bruce and relay the news of an enemy within his own camp. Alone in a world full of danger and the future of her clan at stake, she must trust the handsome, charismatic Highland laird who promises to keep her safe on her journey—and sets her heart to pounding.
Together, Daniel and Myra will risk not only their lives, but their hearts while discovering the true meaning of hope and love in a world fraught with unrest.
EXCERPT--ALL of Chapter One!
Chapter One
Early DecemberHighlands, 1297
A loud crash sounded from below stairs, startling Lady Myra from her prayers. What in all of heaven was that?She’d been sequestered in the chapel for most of the morning—penance for her latest bout of eavesdropping.The chapel was dark, lit only by a few candles upon the altar. A fierce winter gust blew open the shudders, causing the candle flames to waver. Myra rushed to the windows, securing the shudders once more, feeling the wood rattle against her fingertips.Her stomach muscles tightened with unease. There were not often sounds like this at Foulis. In fact, she’d never heard such before.The very floors seemed to shake. Imagination going wild, she pictured the boards beneath her feet splintering and falling through to the great hall below.Myra kept a keen ear, waiting for a sign that would reassure her that nothing was amiss. For once she hoped to hear her older brother, Laird Munro, railing at the clumsy servant who’d dropped something, but there was nothing save an eerie silence. The hair along her neck rose and with it, her skin prickled as an acute sense of dread enveloped her.The castle was never this silent.“Astrid?” she called out to her maid—but there was no reply. Not even the scurrying of her servant’s feet across the floor. Where had the maid gone? She was supposed to wait for Myra outside the chapel door. “Astrid!” she called a little louder this time, but still there was no reply.’Twas as if she were alone, but that made no sense. Foulis Castle was always bustling with people. Unable to stand the silence, Myra scrambled to her feet. She lit a tallow candle by the hearth to light her way in the darkened corridor and slowly crept toward the door of the family chapel. Nothing but a whisper of a breeze from her gown disturbed the areas where she passed—’twas how she was able to eavesdrop so often. Locked away, supposedly for her own good, since she was a girl, she learned an important lesson. If she were to find out anything of import, she had to be secretive and slick, so she learned to creep.She did so now with practiced ease, sidestepping boards known to creak and pausing every few moments to listen for sounds. She strained to hear a whisper, someone’s breathing, anything that would assure her that she had in fact let her imagination get the best of her. But there was nothing.Fighting hard to keep the fear from suffocating her, she reached the door, and with tortured slowness gripped the cool iron handle. She wanted to throw it open, and ignore the dread that held her hand still. But she had to trust her instincts. Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it.Myra leaned in close, pressing her ear to the frozen wood. She remained motionless, listening. Again silence. Satisfied there was no imminent threat, she began to open the door. An earth shattering shriek and another loud crash broke the silence. Myra slammed the door. Was that…? She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Scrambling away from the door, she dropped her candle which snuffed itself out. God’s teeth! Was that a battle cry? Granted, she’d never heard one before, but ’twas not just any shout. Nay, this sound was terrifying. A cry that sent her knees to shaking and her lip to bleeding from biting it so hard.She could barely see, the candles at the altar weren’t putting off enough light. What in blazes was she supposed to do? How would she protect herself? Damn those guards. Why hadn’t there been any warning? Shouts of caution. Why hadn’t the gates been closed?Was it possible that she’d just not heard the warnings? She had been deep in prayer, worrying about her sore knees, and to add insult to injury she’d needed to use the privy for hours. Had she been that preoccupied? Angered? So distracted that if someone had shouted in her ear she probably wouldn’t have heard it? She took a deep breath to figure out her next course of action.The secret stairways! Lucky for her, the chapel was located in a tiny corridor off the gallery above the great hall. A hidden stair, inside the chapel, led up to the master’s chamber. Embarrassed after her penances—which were often, Myra chose not to venture into the great hall, instead she preferred to use the hidden stairs. She knew them well. All of them. When she was just a girl, her father had shown her where they were located, and when she’d once found them fun, she now found comfort in their obscurity. Now they would not only help hide her embarrassment but they might even save her life.Myra did regret being sent to Father Holden for having listened in on a very private and political conversation. Her ears burned from hearing all the things he and his allies had said.Worry consumed her.But this was no time to think back on that conversation. Or was it?There’d been a warning. Rumors of an impending attack. But who would attack Foulis? Any why? Such an act was foolish. They had excellent fortifications. A stone gate tower was built at the front of the castle walls, with at least a half dozen guards on watch at a time. Her brother Byron made sure the gate was always closed, and most often barred. Their walls were thick and she’d thought impenetrable. If they were being attacked, there should have been fair warning. The guards could see all around the castle. No hidden spots for an enemy to hide. Her brother’s retainers kept guard upon the walls and the lands. This she knew—so how?Then Myra remembered— from a neighboring clan, Laird Magnus Sutherland had told her brother that they suspected an attack would come from a trusted ally. There would be no warning. Anyone could be the enemy. Except Magnus had warned of one.Ross.Upon her father’s deathbed this past spring, he’d signed a betrothal contract between Myra and Laird Ross—despite Ross being old enough to be her father. Myra and Ross’ daughter, Ina—who made Myra want to pull her own hair out—were the same age. Myracrinkled her nose. Wasn’t it wrong to be the stepmother of a woman who shared her birth year?Myra’s reaction to the news of her betrothal had garnered her a penance too—three days in a hair shirt and her skin had been so irritated she’d not been comfortable in even the softest linen chemise Astrid could find for her for nearly a fortnight.Could it be him? Was that how the enemy had gained entrance without warning? If ’twas Ross, the he probably tricked everyone into thinking he’d come to discuss the impending alliance between their two clans. Byron wouldn’t have suspected an attack—despite the warning—he was too trustworthy.Myra backed toward the center of the room. Faint cries of pain floated through the floorboards. Fear snaked its way around her spine and threatened to take away her mobility. She grabbed the wooden slat leaning against the wall to bar the door. The candles flickered. Whoever was downstairs was not here for a friendly visit. Heaven help her. They would leave no room unturned. Myra prayed her brother and his wife, Rose who was heavy with child, were safe. That Astrid was hunkered down somewhere with the other servants. She covered her ears from the cries of pain and anger. There was little doubt the enemy was causing great destruction.“Zounds!” Myra tamped the candles on the altar, putting the chapel into shadows and stalked toward the tapestry of a great wildcat on the hunt. She flipped back the covering, not even a speck of dust to make her sneeze since she used it so often. Pressing on the rock that opened the hidden door, she slipped into the black, closing the door behind her. Silent, she welcomed the comfort of nothingness as she slid her feet along the landing until she reached the first step. Finally something positive had come from her many penances, after using this particular staircase at least a thousand times, she knew the exact measurements of each step. The depth, the height. They fit her feet perfectly now.Fingers trailing over the dusty, crumbling stone walls, she made her way carefully but briskly down the stairs until she reached the wall behind her brother’s study. She peered through the imperceptible crack in the wall where she often stood to listen—as she had just the day before. The room was lit by a few candles as though her brother had been there, but he was not now. The room was empty and undisturbed.Where was he? And Rose?Myra’s unease was slowly turning into an acute fear. She refused to let her nerves take over. There had to be another explanation. They couldn’t be under attack. She refused to believe it. Her mind skipped over every other possibility. Perhaps the men were involved in another round of betting. Fighting each other to see who could best who. That made sense. All the servants would be crowded in the minstrel’s gallery above to watch, and the great hall would be a raucous room full of shouting, sweating, swearing warriors.That had to be it. A mock battle of some sort.Yet, this felt different. Every nerve in her body strained and her teeth chattered with fear. Why was she reacting so physically when it might possibly be nothing more than a bit of rowdy warrior fun? Her overactive imagination? Probably. But, she would have to see for herself. Myra continued along her path, winding down and nearly to the great hall when she heard a distant whimpering. Nothing more than a whisper of a sound, but in the complete and silent dark, it was telling. Recalling the number of steps she’d taken, she calculated that she must be just outside Rose’s solar. She ran her hand along the wall searching for the small metal handle, then nudged the door an inch ajar. It was indeed Rose’s solar, and the whimpering was coming from inside, but she couldn’t see who it was, since the doorway was hidden behind a bureau that was pushed against it.Myra listened for a few moments longer to discern if there was only one person in the room. It had to be Bryon’s wife. “Rose?” she whispered.The whimpering stopped.“Hello?” came the tentative voice of her sister-by-marriage.She called to her softly, “Rose, ’tis Myra.”A scuffling, like shoes scooting across the floor sounded within the room. Within moments Rose’s tear-stained face peered through the crack. Her brown eyes were red rimmed and her fiery curls jutted in frantic wisps from her head.“Myra!” she whispered frantically. “Ye must help me. They’ve come. I think they killed Byron. Everyone.”“Who? Wait, help me push this door open, ye must come in here.”Rose shook her head. “They are tearing the castle apart as we speak. If I come in there, then they will too.”Myra’s sister-by-marriage was right. It would be impossible for them to put the bureau back in place. They had to escape unnoticed. The secret passages were the only way—and they had to remain concealed. “Can ye get to Byron’s library? There’s a passage through the hearth.”Rose looked about frantically, as if expecting the door to her solar to bang open at any moment. She nodded, fear filling her eyes.“I will meet ye there. Go. Quickly.” Myra reached her fingers through the door and gripped Rose’s, hoping to give her some measure of comfort. “I will be there waiting.”Rose nodded again, squeezing Myra’s hand with trembling fingers.“I’m going now, Myra.”There was silence and then a creak as Rose opened the door. For several agonizing heartbeats, Myra waited. Waited for Rose to be struck down. Waited for the sound of shouts as she made her escape. Waited for something horrifying to happen. But there was nothing.Myra counted to thirty, slowly, with even breaths, and then she ran back up the dark winding stair until she reached Byron’s library. Peeking through the crack, she determined the room was still empty. With trembling fingers she found the hook in the wall, and slid her finger through it yanking and twisting until the lock unlatched and the wall opened behind the hearth. The library’s hidden door was heavy, but not as heavy as it could be. Made from plaster to look like stone, it was a perfect disguise within the wall. Ashes from the grate stirred and made her cough. She hid her face in her cloak to stifle the sound, and muttered a prayer of thanks for no fire being in the hearth.Her heart felt as though it would explode, racing like sheep hunted by wolves. Myra crouched low to wait for Rose, hoping that should the enemy enter she’d have time to shut the hidden door without their notice.Dear God, let Rose make it here safely.Now she knew for certain, the castle was under attack. None of it seemed real. Fear prickled her skin. Why would anyone want to attack her home? And Byron couldn’t possibly be… “Nay,” Myra whispered with a shake of her head. Byron couldn’t be dead. Just couldn’t.Her breath hitched and panic threatened to take over, but she willed herself to calm. Willed herself to stay strong for Rose and her unborn niece or nephew’s sake.What felt like hours later, but in reality was probably only minutes, the door to the library crept open. Myra bit her lip hard, expecting to hear the scrape of booted heels on the wooden planks, but there was only a whisper of slippers. Rose.“Myra?” her sister-by-marriage called softly.“I’m here.” Myra scrambled out of the hidden door in the hearth, bumping her head on the oak mantel. “Come, we must hurry.”Rose didn’t hesitate. They were through the secret door, the last inch closing when the main door to the library crashed open. Rose jumped beside her, letting out a strangled squeak. Myra reached up, finding Rose’s lips in the dark and pinched them, indicating silence.Rose nodded, and gripped Myra’s hand with deathlike force.Myra did not want to wait and see if those who’d entered happened to notice the wall shift when she’d closed it the remainder of the way, and so squeezing Rose’s hand, she urged her down the steps.Where she’d been able to fly in the dark before, she now had to tread lightly. Rose was already off balance with her huge belly, and not being used to the darkened stairs was made all the more unstable.Myra prayed constantly, a litany in her mind, for the enemy to not follow, and luck must have been on their side because they made it to the door leading into the dungeon without one of the evil villains following.She stopped and gripped Rose’s shoulders. Although she couldn’t see her face, Myra stared in that direction.“Listen now, sister. Ye must hide in here. They willna find ye. I promise.”“Where?”“The dungeon.”From the shudder of Rose’s shoulders, Myra imagined her shaking her head hard.“Ye must. If they find these tunnels, all is lost. But within the dungeon, they’d not find ye there.”“Where are ye going?”“I have to find Byron.”“Nay! Ye canna! He’s dead!” Panic seized Rose’s voice, and she appeared to be on the very verge of hysterics.“Shh… Ye dinna want them to hear us. I willna tarry long. But I must see if he lives.”Rose sobbed quietly and pulled Myra in for a hug. They stood for as long as Myra would allow, which wasn’t nearly long enough, before she pushed the dungeon door open and guided Rose inside.“Hurry back,” Rose said, her voice cracking.“I will.”Myra wasted no time rushing back up the stairs to the great hall. Peering through the hole, she saw nothing but destruction.Bodies with blood flowing. Furniture turned and tossed. Food and wine mingled with the blood upon the floors and tables. Even a few of the dogs had been slaughtered. The dogs. Why would anyone slaughter an innocent animal? Tears pricked her eyes, but she willed them away. What did the enemy have to gain? She kept asking herself that question over and over and still didn’t have an answer.The enemy still lurked within the room. A few warriors she didn’t recognize boasted of their heinous glory while another maniacally abused the body of a dead servant.Bile rose, burning the back of her throat. There was no way she could get inside without being seen.“Myra.” Someone grabbed her ankle, tugging.A scream bubbled up her throat, threatening to wrench free, when logic filled her mind with the sound of her brother’s voice. Weak and pain-filled.Myra crouched before she collapsed to the ground, patting the stone stairs until she felt the slightly cold flesh of her brother’s hand. She scooted close, her knees pressing against his side, feeling his shuddering breaths keenly.“Byron, what’s happened? How did ye get in here?” she whispered.His breathing was labored and she was surprised she hadn’t heard him before.“Ross attacked…” He breathed deep, his lungs rattling. “Just as Sutherland said he would. I crawled into the tunnels…hoped you’d taken Rose…was trying to find…her.”Part of the conversation she’d overheard… Myra squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry, wishing this nightmare away. Her brother was badly injured. Her people slaughtered. The enemy waiting with glee for her to show her face.“Why did he attack?” she asked.Byron squeezed her fingers, but even his grasp was feeble.“They are not our allies. They are allies of England.”Myra’s stomach turned. She swallowed hard as her worst fears came true. And she was supposed to marry the bastard. Shaking her head, she gripped Byron’s hand hard. There was no time for her to dwell on it now. She had to help him.“Come, let me help ye. We must patch up your wounds. Where are ye hurt?”“There’s no use for it, sister. I’m going to die…”For what seemed like a lifetime, there was silence. Her heart felt like it’d been ripped from her chest, and the fear of her brother passing before she could say goodbye collided with her senses.“Nay. Nay, we will bring ye down to the dungeon with Rose. She’ll help me.”Byron chuckled softly. “Ye’re a good woman, Myra. As much as ye’re a pain in the arse. But ye must leave me here. I need ye to do something for me.”Tears stung her eyes, and if she could see, her vision would be blurred. “What? Anything, tell me.”“I need ye to see Rose safely to the Sutherlands. And then I need ye to deliver a message.”The Sutherlands were their allies, and to be trusted. The chief himself had been involved with William Wallace at Stirling Bridge, a major reason for their victory. He’d been the one to warn of the Ross treachery. Rose would be safe within their walls.“I will.”“Ye must find Robert the Bruce. He is…”Byron’s voice trailed off again. Time was running short. She could only pray he would last long enough to give her the full message. “He is at Eilean Donan… Not safe. He’ll never be king if… Ye must tell him about Ross. Tell him that there is an enemy within his camp…tell him Ross is in league with the English and plans to kill him.”Myra shuddered. King Edward, better known as Longshanks by her kin, was responsible for this war. He wanted to scour the Scots from their own land, the greedy bastard. She’d lived in fear nearly her entire life. The Sassenachs were monsters that lived under her bed, crept in the shadows of her nursery as a child, and even now when she felt as though she was being watched it was by one of the demon English.With William Wallace fighting alongside the Bruce, they’d won the Battle of Stirling Bridge—a major victory for the Scots—and it emerged that her country might indeed gain their freedom from English oppressors. But not if they were being undermined from within. Not if Ross gave away their secrets and whereabouts.Damn him!“Tell Rose I love…” Byron’s voice trailed off and Myra felt him shudder against her knees.Myra shoved her anger to the back of her mind, concentrating on her brother’s last ragged breaths. A sob slipped from her throat and she collapsed onto his chest, hugging him, trying to push her warmth into him, trying to bring him back from death. All around her on the floor, his warm sticky blood flowed.But ’twas no use. Byron was gone—and at the hands of a man she despised. An enemy of her country. An enemy of her family. A man she vowed to never marry. Not in this lifetime, nor in the next. She would see Rose to safety and then she would see to the demise of Ross—tell the Bruce of the traitor’s existence.Myra slipped her brother’s ring from his finger, the one made of gold and onyx, a symbol of the Munro clan chief and shoved the ring into her boot. With a start she realized what Byron’s death meant.Myra was chief.“Dear Rose, please birth a son.”She didn’t want to be chief. Had no idea how to run a clan.Cradling her brother’s head, she laid him down gently, giving him one last kiss on the cheek. She swallowed her fear, clear on what had to be done. Conviction straightened her spine as she stood. As chief of Munro—for hopefully only a month or so longer—she would see this deed done.Myra raced down the steps to the dungeon, finding Rose where she’d left her.“We must make haste.” Her voice came out harsher than she intended, but Rose made no comment on it.Pulling Rose back into the darkened corridor, they made their way farther down the stairs.“We will have to crawl through here. Think ye can manage?”“Aye,” Rose said. She didn’t ask what Myra had found and her voice too grew harder as though she knew her husband was dead.Myra could not imagine how Rose felt. To be left so soon by her husband and a bairn on the way.They crawled through the last tunnel, the weight of the castle above them. The stones were slick and bits of debris littering the floor jabbed into her palms.Ye can do this. Myra repeated the words in her mind a thousand times, and with each recitation, she felt a little stronger.When they neared the end of the tunnel, a bright light slipped through a crack of stone, beckoning them forward. A breeze whistled through the crack sending wintry chills up and down her limbs. ’Twas cold outside… Traveling would not be easy.“We’re almost there,” she called to Rose who crawled behind her.Rose let out a little grunt.“Keep that bairn inside ye.” Myra had the sudden horrific thought that Rose might go into labor from all the stress of the day on her mind and body.“He’s to stay put,” Rose panted from the exertion of crawling.“Let us pray ’tis a boy.”They at last reached the end where there was room to stand. Myra helped Rose up, her legs wobbly.“When we leave this cave, we will have to keep close to the walls, and ye’ll need to stay hidden while I fetch us a horse.”“Nay!” Rose shook her head vehemently. “The attackers are sure to be out there.”“Aye. But what choice do we have? We canna stay here and wait for them to find us.”In the sliver of light coming from the hidden entrance, Myra could make out Rose’s eyes shifting about in thought.“We shall walk into the village and get a horse from there,” Rose offered.Myra shook her head. “Most likely they’ve burned the village, or at the very least are looting it. I’ll not have us stuck there.” Myra pressed a steady hand to Rose’s belly, feeling the child kick within. A surge of protectiveness filled her. “Or be killed. We will see my brother’s heir to safety. Ye and I together.”“I trust ye.” Rose nodded, her eyes wide. “I do.”“All right, then, ye stay here. If I’m not back within a quarter hour, run.”
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December 11, 2012
A Health Unto Her Majesty: The Allure Of The Victorian Age by Pamela Sherwood
Today I'd like to welcome Pamela Sherwood to History Undressed! She's talking to us today about the Victoria Age--a time I find so incredibly fascinating. Also, leave a comment for your chance to win a copy of her new release, Waltz With a Stranger!!!
A Health Unto Her Majesty: The Allure Of The Victorian Age
by Pamela Sherwood
Hello, everyone, and thank you to Eliza for hosting me at History Undressed!
Queen Victoria, for whom
the era was named.Today, I’ve been asked to explain what I find so fascinating about the Victorian Era. Well, initially, there was no fascination--at least, not that I recognized. Like many historical romance authors, I came to the genre through the Regencies of Georgette Heyer and her successors. Naturally, I expected that if I ever tried my hand at writing a romance, it would be set in the Regency: elegant, polished, witty but dramatic, a fusion of Jane Austen and Sir Walter Scott.
Being seduced by the Victorian Age was the last thing I expected. Not that I disdained it--my graduate work focused on Victorian poetry, after all--but surely I’d said all I intended to say about the era in my thesis, right?
Flash forward several years--never mind how many!--and I find I do have more to say about the Victorian Age, after all.
By historical standards, the Regency is an eyeblink, lasting less than a full decade, from 1811 to 1820. By contrast, the Victorian period spans 64 years, Years of sweeping, dramatic, transformative change. Years in which a sheltered eighteen-year-old princess, who had reportedly said “I will be good” when informed she would one day rule England, grew by turns into a stately royal wife and mother of a dynasty, and then the sad, but still formidable Widow of Windsor, reigning over a vast, far-flung empire upon which the sun famously never set.
Choose any decade in Victoria’s reign, and you’ll find something happening: socially, economically, politically, technologically, even artistically. The Victorians might be considered uptight, repressed, overly earnest, occasionally hypocritical, and much less dashing than their Regency predecessors, but they knew how to get things done. A series of reforms ameliorated the lot of the poor, slavery within the empire was finally abolished, a police system was established--and the British police force is still considered by many to be the best in the world. Meanwhile, new inventions--the railroad, the telephone, electric lighting--brought people infinitely closer to the world we know today.
Girton CollegeThe vexed “Woman Question” was also being addressed. In 1857 divorce became the provenance of the civil rather than the ecclesiastical courts, making it slightly easier for unhappily married couples to dissolve their union. Laws were changed so married women could acquire and retain rights to property. In 1869, Cambridge University established Girton College, just for women students. Ten years later, Oxford followed suit by founding Lady Margaret Hall and Somerville. Degrees were still an unrealized dream until the 1920s, but women did have the opportunity to study at Oxford or Cambridge. Towards the end of the century, women who could claim some education and training were finding jobs outside the home, the schools, or the shops, working as secretaries, telephone operators, and even journalists. And the seeds for women’s suffrage were sown as well, germinating into full-blown rebellion in the Edwardian Age.
Another dramatic change was occurring on the domestic front, as the “Buccaneers” successfully infiltrated the hidebound English aristocracy, revitalizing it with new blood, new vigor, and new money. Dynamic, determined, wealthy beyond dreams of avarice, American heiresses crossed the Atlantic in droves between 1870 and 1910, intent on securing the best husbands money could buy. “Best” being a somewhat subjective term, most often synonymous with “titled,” and many land-rich but cash-poor European peers were more than willing to be bought.
Several “Buccaneers” found only disillusionment and disappointment in these transatlantic matches. Others found purpose, fulfillment, and after some initial struggle, a love to last a lifetime, as what began as a marriage of convenience developed into a union of shared interests and mutual affection.
In my debut novel, Waltz with a Stranger, twin American heiresses Amy and Aurelia Newbold have made the pilgrimage from New York to London. Dazzling, ambitious Amy has set her sights high: nothing less than a peer will do. By contrast, Aurelia hopes only to escape notice. Jilted by her first love after a riding accident left her lamed and scarred, she believes herself to be unmarriageable--and undesirable. Until one chance encounter, one moonlit waltz, changes her life forever...
Visit Pamela at http://pamelasherwood.com
A Health Unto Her Majesty: The Allure Of The Victorian Age
by Pamela Sherwood
Hello, everyone, and thank you to Eliza for hosting me at History Undressed!
Queen Victoria, for whomthe era was named.Today, I’ve been asked to explain what I find so fascinating about the Victorian Era. Well, initially, there was no fascination--at least, not that I recognized. Like many historical romance authors, I came to the genre through the Regencies of Georgette Heyer and her successors. Naturally, I expected that if I ever tried my hand at writing a romance, it would be set in the Regency: elegant, polished, witty but dramatic, a fusion of Jane Austen and Sir Walter Scott.
Being seduced by the Victorian Age was the last thing I expected. Not that I disdained it--my graduate work focused on Victorian poetry, after all--but surely I’d said all I intended to say about the era in my thesis, right?
Flash forward several years--never mind how many!--and I find I do have more to say about the Victorian Age, after all.
By historical standards, the Regency is an eyeblink, lasting less than a full decade, from 1811 to 1820. By contrast, the Victorian period spans 64 years, Years of sweeping, dramatic, transformative change. Years in which a sheltered eighteen-year-old princess, who had reportedly said “I will be good” when informed she would one day rule England, grew by turns into a stately royal wife and mother of a dynasty, and then the sad, but still formidable Widow of Windsor, reigning over a vast, far-flung empire upon which the sun famously never set.Choose any decade in Victoria’s reign, and you’ll find something happening: socially, economically, politically, technologically, even artistically. The Victorians might be considered uptight, repressed, overly earnest, occasionally hypocritical, and much less dashing than their Regency predecessors, but they knew how to get things done. A series of reforms ameliorated the lot of the poor, slavery within the empire was finally abolished, a police system was established--and the British police force is still considered by many to be the best in the world. Meanwhile, new inventions--the railroad, the telephone, electric lighting--brought people infinitely closer to the world we know today.
Girton CollegeThe vexed “Woman Question” was also being addressed. In 1857 divorce became the provenance of the civil rather than the ecclesiastical courts, making it slightly easier for unhappily married couples to dissolve their union. Laws were changed so married women could acquire and retain rights to property. In 1869, Cambridge University established Girton College, just for women students. Ten years later, Oxford followed suit by founding Lady Margaret Hall and Somerville. Degrees were still an unrealized dream until the 1920s, but women did have the opportunity to study at Oxford or Cambridge. Towards the end of the century, women who could claim some education and training were finding jobs outside the home, the schools, or the shops, working as secretaries, telephone operators, and even journalists. And the seeds for women’s suffrage were sown as well, germinating into full-blown rebellion in the Edwardian Age.Another dramatic change was occurring on the domestic front, as the “Buccaneers” successfully infiltrated the hidebound English aristocracy, revitalizing it with new blood, new vigor, and new money. Dynamic, determined, wealthy beyond dreams of avarice, American heiresses crossed the Atlantic in droves between 1870 and 1910, intent on securing the best husbands money could buy. “Best” being a somewhat subjective term, most often synonymous with “titled,” and many land-rich but cash-poor European peers were more than willing to be bought.
Several “Buccaneers” found only disillusionment and disappointment in these transatlantic matches. Others found purpose, fulfillment, and after some initial struggle, a love to last a lifetime, as what began as a marriage of convenience developed into a union of shared interests and mutual affection.
In my debut novel, Waltz with a Stranger, twin American heiresses Amy and Aurelia Newbold have made the pilgrimage from New York to London. Dazzling, ambitious Amy has set her sights high: nothing less than a peer will do. By contrast, Aurelia hopes only to escape notice. Jilted by her first love after a riding accident left her lamed and scarred, she believes herself to be unmarriageable--and undesirable. Until one chance encounter, one moonlit waltz, changes her life forever...Visit Pamela at http://pamelasherwood.com
December 10, 2012
Tudor Magic by Frances Burke
Today I'd like to welcome guest author, Frances Burke, to History Undressed! She and I share a love of the Tudors! And she's here today to talk a bit about the 'Tudor Age'. I'm looking forward to reading her book, Enchantress. Enjoy!
TUDOR MAGICby Frances Burke
At the beginning of the so-called ‘Tudor Age’ with Henry VII’s seizure of the throne, England was still very much a medieval society, with glimmerings of the Italian Renaissance on the horizon.By the time Henry VIII took power many changes had taken place. For the educated class the development of printing was putting the Bible and other books in the hands of more and more people. There was great wealth in the land, thanks to the previous king’s care. Things were relatively peaceful, save for some back and forth with France. However, towards the end of Henry’s reign, the Treasury was depleted, the country was weary of war with France and Scotland, and religion was about to take a complete right-hand turn.The Protestant faith had put an end to clerical supremacy, and the rituals and ‘magic’ of the Catholic Church, which had so ordered people’s thinking, both comforting and terrorizing them, had been taken away. There was a huge gap in the still medieval-oriented lives of the common folk, and to fill this they turned with increasing enthusiasm to their traditional belief in magic, witches and fiends.According to the historian, Nigel Heard, ‘In popular imagination, alongside the real world of everyday life there existed a spirit world inhabited by ghosts, fairies, vampires and devils.’ It was very important to guard against the supernatural, and every community had its magicians and ‘cunning’ man or woman who could be consulted about the future, heal the sick, and generally use special powers to protect the neighbours.There were witches, too, who supposedly could kill with just a glance, and were known to indulge in sexual excess – despite the fact that they were most often poor and elderly women. They were not, however, linked with the idea of diabolical practices, as were witches on the Continent. This only came about in England during the 17thC. Toward the end of Elizabeth’s reign there was a huge upsurge in the number of witches and sorcerers which led to several statutes against ‘Conjurations, Inchantments and Witchcraft’. Books were published dealing with the phenomenon, and it was clear that witchcraft was intellectually accepted and discussed by all classes.Another quite superior category of occultists existed, the alchemists – who took it for granted that ‘magic’ really worked and that it was possible to make contact with and control angels and demons. Some, like Doctor John Dee, Elizabeth’s own magician, were renowned scholars, although many were less reputable. Almost all were in the business of transmuting base metal into gold and discovering the Philosopher’s Stone, a mysterious object that would turn men into gods (although they didn’t put it in so many words). They studied geomancy, or fortune-telling through the earth, astrology and the Kabbalah, and some even tried to create life without the aid of a woman – ‘the ultimate proof of man’s divinity’, according to Paracelsus, a celebrated physician/alchemist of the time. These men were the forefathers of today’s science, and they left behind them valuable manuscripts related to their experiments and discoveries. It’s unfortunate that so much of the written work was kept deliberately obscure. However, today’s investigators with open minds are inclined to think that there was much to be gained from these ancient writings – especially with regard to the study of the occult, spiritualism and a belief in life-after-death.Doctor Cosmo Meniscus, the alchemist in my novel ENCHANTRESS, was initially an explorer of the unknown who had dedicated his life to the science of that Age. It was his misfortune to discover in an innocent young woman a magical faculty that he craved. The manipulation of that gift brought terrible danger and, in the end, an extraordinary revelation of what ‘magic’ might be.
ENCHANTRESS is a tale of passion and intrigue set against a backdrop of brilliant pageantry and political and religious conspiracy.
Peregrine Woodward, an insignificant relative attached to Anne Boleyn’s entourage at King Henry VIII’s Court, is thrown into violent conflict with the powerful and ambitious men and women of the times. Her healing and prophetic gifts are particularly dangerous and confronting. They are coveted by the fascinating alchemist, Doctor Cosmo Meniscus, who almost destroys her in his attempt to control her destiny; while Richard de Burgh, the man she loves, will betray her innocence, before succumbing to her enchantment.
Peregrine’s own increasing ability to alter people’s destiny is her challenge. But the bond with Richard throughout their turbulent relationship becomes her greatest strength.From the Author....I write in my home study in a leafy area of Sydney, but love to travel to exotic settings for my novels. I’ve explored the Forbidden City of Peking, walked on the highest peaks and glaciers of Alaska, and ridden a camel in the desert footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia. I love an English country manor house as much as an ancient French castle, or the echoing corridors of Australia’s first hospital built by criminals and financed by rum. The ghosts are everywhere.
The past is endlessly fascinating, and I bring it alive, peopling it with men and women who are hardy and adventurous, and willing to travel beyond the boundaries of polite society.
Endless Time, my first paranormal, was a prize-winner with Random House, and since then I’ve published five more romantic historicals, each with a different background and time frame. I’ve followed different paths with the regency novella and a contemporary crime novel which somehow managed to involve itself in history. I’ve struggled with characters who deliberately wandered from their place in the storyline, and had to dismiss some who simply would not fit in. My library shelves groan with the weight of research material, rarely dusted, I admit. Life is too busy, too packed with things to know, places to go, characters to create, stories to weave.
I write about adventure, the unexplained, murder, war and love. I write because I must.
Visit Frances at her Website, Facebook
TUDOR MAGICby Frances Burke
At the beginning of the so-called ‘Tudor Age’ with Henry VII’s seizure of the throne, England was still very much a medieval society, with glimmerings of the Italian Renaissance on the horizon.By the time Henry VIII took power many changes had taken place. For the educated class the development of printing was putting the Bible and other books in the hands of more and more people. There was great wealth in the land, thanks to the previous king’s care. Things were relatively peaceful, save for some back and forth with France. However, towards the end of Henry’s reign, the Treasury was depleted, the country was weary of war with France and Scotland, and religion was about to take a complete right-hand turn.The Protestant faith had put an end to clerical supremacy, and the rituals and ‘magic’ of the Catholic Church, which had so ordered people’s thinking, both comforting and terrorizing them, had been taken away. There was a huge gap in the still medieval-oriented lives of the common folk, and to fill this they turned with increasing enthusiasm to their traditional belief in magic, witches and fiends.According to the historian, Nigel Heard, ‘In popular imagination, alongside the real world of everyday life there existed a spirit world inhabited by ghosts, fairies, vampires and devils.’ It was very important to guard against the supernatural, and every community had its magicians and ‘cunning’ man or woman who could be consulted about the future, heal the sick, and generally use special powers to protect the neighbours.There were witches, too, who supposedly could kill with just a glance, and were known to indulge in sexual excess – despite the fact that they were most often poor and elderly women. They were not, however, linked with the idea of diabolical practices, as were witches on the Continent. This only came about in England during the 17thC. Toward the end of Elizabeth’s reign there was a huge upsurge in the number of witches and sorcerers which led to several statutes against ‘Conjurations, Inchantments and Witchcraft’. Books were published dealing with the phenomenon, and it was clear that witchcraft was intellectually accepted and discussed by all classes.Another quite superior category of occultists existed, the alchemists – who took it for granted that ‘magic’ really worked and that it was possible to make contact with and control angels and demons. Some, like Doctor John Dee, Elizabeth’s own magician, were renowned scholars, although many were less reputable. Almost all were in the business of transmuting base metal into gold and discovering the Philosopher’s Stone, a mysterious object that would turn men into gods (although they didn’t put it in so many words). They studied geomancy, or fortune-telling through the earth, astrology and the Kabbalah, and some even tried to create life without the aid of a woman – ‘the ultimate proof of man’s divinity’, according to Paracelsus, a celebrated physician/alchemist of the time. These men were the forefathers of today’s science, and they left behind them valuable manuscripts related to their experiments and discoveries. It’s unfortunate that so much of the written work was kept deliberately obscure. However, today’s investigators with open minds are inclined to think that there was much to be gained from these ancient writings – especially with regard to the study of the occult, spiritualism and a belief in life-after-death.Doctor Cosmo Meniscus, the alchemist in my novel ENCHANTRESS, was initially an explorer of the unknown who had dedicated his life to the science of that Age. It was his misfortune to discover in an innocent young woman a magical faculty that he craved. The manipulation of that gift brought terrible danger and, in the end, an extraordinary revelation of what ‘magic’ might be.
ENCHANTRESS is a tale of passion and intrigue set against a backdrop of brilliant pageantry and political and religious conspiracy.Peregrine Woodward, an insignificant relative attached to Anne Boleyn’s entourage at King Henry VIII’s Court, is thrown into violent conflict with the powerful and ambitious men and women of the times. Her healing and prophetic gifts are particularly dangerous and confronting. They are coveted by the fascinating alchemist, Doctor Cosmo Meniscus, who almost destroys her in his attempt to control her destiny; while Richard de Burgh, the man she loves, will betray her innocence, before succumbing to her enchantment.
Peregrine’s own increasing ability to alter people’s destiny is her challenge. But the bond with Richard throughout their turbulent relationship becomes her greatest strength.From the Author....I write in my home study in a leafy area of Sydney, but love to travel to exotic settings for my novels. I’ve explored the Forbidden City of Peking, walked on the highest peaks and glaciers of Alaska, and ridden a camel in the desert footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia. I love an English country manor house as much as an ancient French castle, or the echoing corridors of Australia’s first hospital built by criminals and financed by rum. The ghosts are everywhere.
The past is endlessly fascinating, and I bring it alive, peopling it with men and women who are hardy and adventurous, and willing to travel beyond the boundaries of polite society.
Endless Time, my first paranormal, was a prize-winner with Random House, and since then I’ve published five more romantic historicals, each with a different background and time frame. I’ve followed different paths with the regency novella and a contemporary crime novel which somehow managed to involve itself in history. I’ve struggled with characters who deliberately wandered from their place in the storyline, and had to dismiss some who simply would not fit in. My library shelves groan with the weight of research material, rarely dusted, I admit. Life is too busy, too packed with things to know, places to go, characters to create, stories to weave.
I write about adventure, the unexplained, murder, war and love. I write because I must.
Visit Frances at her Website, Facebook
December 7, 2012
Sexuality in Art from Ancient Rome
Given last week's "scandalous" discovery of the Giant Penis, I've decided to give you something else equally naughty. Today I give you ancient Roman erotic art... Often naughty, sometimes comical. The Ancient Romans were not abashed by sexuality. They embraced it. Put it up on their walls, wore it around their necks. Sex was out there, in your face.
Enjoy!
Satyr and nymph, mythological symbols of sexuality on a mosaic from a bedroom in Pompeii
Southern wall of room 43 (Cubiculum) in the Casa del Centenario (IX 8,3) in Pompeii,
1st Century. Fresco of couple in bed.
Fresco from Pompei, Casa di Venus, 1st century AD. Dug out in 1960. It is supposed that this fresco could be the Roman copy of famous portrait of Campaspe, mistress of Alexander the Great
Fresco of Priapus, Casa dei Vettii, Pompeii. Depicted weighing his enormous erect penis against a bag of gold.
Erotic Scene from the eastern side of the southern wall of the Lupanar. Roman fresco in Pompeii.
Enjoy!
Satyr and nymph, mythological symbols of sexuality on a mosaic from a bedroom in Pompeii
Southern wall of room 43 (Cubiculum) in the Casa del Centenario (IX 8,3) in Pompeii, 1st Century. Fresco of couple in bed.
Fresco from Pompei, Casa di Venus, 1st century AD. Dug out in 1960. It is supposed that this fresco could be the Roman copy of famous portrait of Campaspe, mistress of Alexander the Great
Fresco of Priapus, Casa dei Vettii, Pompeii. Depicted weighing his enormous erect penis against a bag of gold.
Erotic Scene from the eastern side of the southern wall of the Lupanar. Roman fresco in Pompeii.
December 4, 2012
Video of the Week: Horrible Histories -- Georgian Court Toilets
OMG, this is too hilarious!!!! Another weekly video from Horrible Histories on Georgian court toilets :)
December 3, 2012
Highland Rake with a Ghostly Twist by Terry Spear
Welcome back to History Undressed, guest author, Terry Spear! She's got a new release, HIGHLAND RAKE, with a new twist and she's sharing her ghostly travels to Scotland! The pic to the left is Terry Dunnottar Castle in Scotland. Enjoy!
Highland Rake with a Ghostly Twist
FromRavenswood House in Ballater, Aberdeenshire where a seafaring ghost, trader in alcohol and tea, resides…to ghostsat various inns all over Scotland…to a BBCspecial about how highly populated Scotland is with ghosties…to castles that house ghosts…
Dunnottar Castle
and Brodie CastleI was fascinated with the idea of incorporating one…or a few…in my current book release.In one castle we visited, it was said that a young lady was taken in by the laird, but when she was found pregnant, and unwed, she vanished. Now her ghost haunts the castle.
We didn’t see any evidence of hauntings while we visited the seven castles in Scotland, but when we stopped to take pictures of the Highland cows in a pasture, trees shading them, no farmhouse nearby, a river beyond the field, tall hills behind us, no buildings or people anywhere about, I heard the most beautiful instrumental Celtic music. I felt carried away to a movie scene, the grass bright green, the air chilly on that October day, the red long-haired cows munching on grass, and the Celtic music playing in the background.When I reached the fence to get as close as I could to take pictures of the cows, the music stopped. I took several pictures, then joined my lady friends, one being Vonda Sinclair, another Highland romance writer, and said, “Did you hear the music? Wasn’t it beautiful?”
Highland CowI knew they’d say yes. I mean, who wouldn’t who loved all things Scottish?
Neither heard any music. I couldn’t believe it. It was real, just beyond the tall lonely hills where not a soul lived or stirred.
So when I wrote Highland Rake, third book in The Highlanders series, I wanted the heroine to be able to commune with ghosts. She has a pesky ghostly brother, and the hero’s spirited sister that tangles with Alana’s brother. The story is filled with mystery—why her brother had died, who had murdered her father and his men—and both the living and the dead help to provide clues in this Highland Medieval romance.
Even in my Highland wolf series, starting with Heart of the Highland Wolf, the MacNeills have a ghostly cousin who lives at Argent Castle. I just couldn’t write the werewolf tale, without having a resident ghost! In A Howl for a Highlander, and A Highland Werewolf Wedding, both coming in 2013, the MacNeill ghost has his part. The Castle Dunnottar inspired me to write: A Highland Werewolf Wedding though. The Medieval castle overlooks the northeast coast of Scotland in Kincardineshire and was extremely cold that day. But when we were in the inner bailey, surrounded by thick walls, I felt almost warm. I didn’t feel anything evil—just at home there. And so because of that I used the castle ruins in the story.
Several roads in Scotland have ghostly sightings also. Drivers have thought they’ve hit a person, only to discover there is no one there. One of the days we traveled, the fog was so thick, it was hard to see much of anything. I could imagine a ghost blending in with the mist.
Scotland just seems the perfect place for spirits to thrive.
Having had a love of all things ghostly since I was a child, but never having experienced such a thing back then, I always felt the ghost stories fun-filled fantasy. I later encountered ghostly apparitions. One was in the Palo Duro Canyon, Texas, where Indian ponies raced across the cliffs, and as I was curled up in a sleeping bag alongside my fellow Army ROTC cadets, I believed we would be trampled to death. Except the ponies were already dead—corralled by the US Cavalry and herded off the cliff’s edge to prevent the Indian tribes that had gathered to fight from remounting their ponies and fighting again.
I didn’t believe that I had had a ghostly experience then. I never do. It happened. I heard them, their hooves pounding the ground, their neighing and whinnying, and snorts. The only thing I realized I didn’t sense was the vibration through the ground that I would have felt as they stampeded toward us. They moved away and faded into the night. And no one but me had heard them.
Yet, when I went to write about the real ponies years later, and was doing research about them, for years believing they were wild mustangs, I discovered many over the years had heard the ghostly horses.
I’ve had other experiences too, only in one, my son, daughter, and mother witnessed it too. You know, it’s really great when others have seen or heard the same thing you have!
So what about you? Ready to witness ghosts in Scotland? Or have you already? Or somewhere else that you’ve been?
Dougald MacNeill takes Lady Alana Cameron to his laird brother James's Craigly Castle when he finds her roaming the heather on the MacNeill lands. But who has sent her there and why? Her uncle, laird of the Cameron clan, and warring with the MacNeill for years, has made a marriage arrangement with another clan and now that is even at stake.Having witnessed her father's death, and even believing he had returned her home when all along he had been dead, Alana discovers she has the gift, or curse, of seeing the newly departed and sometimes those who should have long ago passed over. Her own deceased brother continues to plague her, the rake, and now another, who is very much of the flesh, Dougald MacNeill, has her thinking marrying a rake might just have its benefits. Dougald's sister, who is one fiesty ghost, has offered to help Alana keep Dougald in line if he thinks of even straying.
But who sent Alana on a fool's errand in the first place to remove her from the Cameron's lands and set her squarely in Dougald's care, and who really killed her father and her brother, and what has it all to do with Alana? Will she and Dougald learn the truth before it is too late?
Terry
"Giving new meaning to the term alpha male where fantasy IS reality."
About the AuthorUSA Todaybestselling and an award-winning author of urban fantasy and medieval romantic suspense, Terry Spear also writes true stories for adult and young adult audiences. She’s a retired lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Army Reserves and has an MBA from Monmouth University. She also creates award-winning teddy bears, Wilde & Woolly Bears, that are personalized that have found homes all over the world. When she’s not writing or making bears, she’s teaching online writing courses or gardening. Her family has roots in the Highlands of Scotland where her love of all things Scottish came into being. Originally from California, she’s lived in eight states and now resides in the heart of Texas. She is the author of the Heart of the Wolf series and the Heart of the Jaguar series, plus numerous other paranormal romance and historical romance novels. For more information, please visit www.terryspear.com, or follow her on Twitter, @TerrySpear. She is also on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/terry.spear .
December 1, 2012
Christmas on the Home Front in 1939 by Fenella Miller
Today I'd like to welcome guest author, Fenella Miller, to History Undressed! She's written a post on Christmas on the home front for us! Enjoy!
Christmas on the Home Front in 1939by Fenella Miller
Photo by Phil Gyfford, courtesy of Flickr1939 was the last of what could be thought of as a ‘pre-war’ Christmas. Although there were restrictions and the blackout was in place civilians were determined to celebrate. An advert that ran sums up what people felt, “As dusk falls, the fairy lights on the Christmas tree outside St Paul’s Cathedral will go out… we must await victory to again see them at night in all their colours.”
Amazingly over 4000 civilians were killed on the roads that winter compared to 2500 the previous period in 1938. There were 155 lives lost in accidents on the road in December of 1939 –the highest recorded number of deaths.
The weather that year was very seasonal – most of the country was blanketed in snow. In fact this was the coldest winter for nearly fifty years. Families were without their sons, fathers and brothers and over half a million men were serving in France.
The government wanted the population to know what they were fighting for – celebrating as always would reinforce this message. The radio, magazines and newspapers all stressed the importance of community spirit, family values, neighbourliness, faith and tradition. They wanted families to celebrate in style. Rationing didn’t begin until January so there was no shortage of the traditional Christmas fare. No doubt many remembered the shortages experienced in WW1 and were already hording food in the expectation that things would be in short supply very soon.
Children’s toys were still available but even in 1939 suggestions were being made for ways civilians could ‘make do and mend’. Rubber toys for the bath could be made from old inner tubes or hot water bottles. These are cut with scissors and stuck together with the rubber solution used to end a puncture. They were then packed with kapok or chopped up bits of rubber or cork sawdust from fruit packing. These don’t sound especially attractive – I can’t imagine any five year old being thrilled to find a dingy grey rubber toy in their sock on Christmas morning. Card games called ‘Vacuation’ and ‘Blackout’ were also popular. My husband remembers being delighted to have an orange, nuts, a sugar mouse and a couple of wooden farm animals in his sock. For him, a rural working class family, presents under the tree didn’t feature.
Folk were asked to send parcels to the troops in France containing men’s magazines and darts. A personalised Christmas card was also added – the cost was only 3s 6d. Women’s Pictorial suggested families sent boiled sweets, jam, biscuits, chutney, plum cake as well as soap and razor blades.
Nothing much has changed even after almost seventy years. I was sending parcels to out brave troops in Afghanistan last year with more or less the same things in – minus the darts and razor blades. Nothing sharp is allowed in BFPO parcels.
Christmas day radio broadcast would have been an important part of the festivities – although church would have come first. Her is small selection of what would have been listend to:
7.00: Christmas Greetings – a sackful of stories, verses and records.7.40: The Reginald King Trio8.15: Christmas Carols…10.00: A Nativity play by Bernard Walker ‘Bethlehem’…1.10: An Orchestral Concert conducted by Guy Warrack.…2.15: The Empire’s Greeting. (This involved messages form navy vessels, an airborne RAF aircraft, a Welsh miners’ choir, a shipyard worker’s house in Northern Ireland and many other similar things3.00 The King’s Speech ).
I doubt anyone stands to attention when the Queen addresses the nation nowadays.
Hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse into Christmas in 1939.Fenella J Miller
Barbara's War
As war rages over Europe, Barbara Sinclair is desperate to escape from her unhappy home which is a target of the German Luftwaffe. Caught up by the emotion of the moment she agrees to marry John, her childhood friend, who is leaving to join the RAF, but a meeting with Simon Farley, the son of a local industrialist, and an encounter with Alex Everton, a Spitfire pilot, complicate matters. With rationing, bombing and the constant threat of death all around her, Barbara must unravel the complexities of her home life and the difficulties of her emotional relationships in this gripping coming-of-age wartime drama.
Hannah's War
World War II brings divided loyalties and tough decisions in this page turning drama from Fenella Miller.
Hannah Austen-Bagshaw’s privileged background can’t stop her falling in love with working-class pilot, Jack, but Hannah has a secret. Torn between her duty and her humanity, she is sheltering a young German pilot knowing she risks being arrested as a traitor. Hannah’s worst fears are realised when Jack finds out what she has done and their love begins to unravel.
Will her betrayal be too much for Jack to forgive?
Christmas on the Home Front in 1939by Fenella Miller
Photo by Phil Gyfford, courtesy of Flickr1939 was the last of what could be thought of as a ‘pre-war’ Christmas. Although there were restrictions and the blackout was in place civilians were determined to celebrate. An advert that ran sums up what people felt, “As dusk falls, the fairy lights on the Christmas tree outside St Paul’s Cathedral will go out… we must await victory to again see them at night in all their colours.”Amazingly over 4000 civilians were killed on the roads that winter compared to 2500 the previous period in 1938. There were 155 lives lost in accidents on the road in December of 1939 –the highest recorded number of deaths.
The weather that year was very seasonal – most of the country was blanketed in snow. In fact this was the coldest winter for nearly fifty years. Families were without their sons, fathers and brothers and over half a million men were serving in France.
The government wanted the population to know what they were fighting for – celebrating as always would reinforce this message. The radio, magazines and newspapers all stressed the importance of community spirit, family values, neighbourliness, faith and tradition. They wanted families to celebrate in style. Rationing didn’t begin until January so there was no shortage of the traditional Christmas fare. No doubt many remembered the shortages experienced in WW1 and were already hording food in the expectation that things would be in short supply very soon.
Children’s toys were still available but even in 1939 suggestions were being made for ways civilians could ‘make do and mend’. Rubber toys for the bath could be made from old inner tubes or hot water bottles. These are cut with scissors and stuck together with the rubber solution used to end a puncture. They were then packed with kapok or chopped up bits of rubber or cork sawdust from fruit packing. These don’t sound especially attractive – I can’t imagine any five year old being thrilled to find a dingy grey rubber toy in their sock on Christmas morning. Card games called ‘Vacuation’ and ‘Blackout’ were also popular. My husband remembers being delighted to have an orange, nuts, a sugar mouse and a couple of wooden farm animals in his sock. For him, a rural working class family, presents under the tree didn’t feature.
Folk were asked to send parcels to the troops in France containing men’s magazines and darts. A personalised Christmas card was also added – the cost was only 3s 6d. Women’s Pictorial suggested families sent boiled sweets, jam, biscuits, chutney, plum cake as well as soap and razor blades.
Nothing much has changed even after almost seventy years. I was sending parcels to out brave troops in Afghanistan last year with more or less the same things in – minus the darts and razor blades. Nothing sharp is allowed in BFPO parcels.
Christmas day radio broadcast would have been an important part of the festivities – although church would have come first. Her is small selection of what would have been listend to:
7.00: Christmas Greetings – a sackful of stories, verses and records.7.40: The Reginald King Trio8.15: Christmas Carols…10.00: A Nativity play by Bernard Walker ‘Bethlehem’…1.10: An Orchestral Concert conducted by Guy Warrack.…2.15: The Empire’s Greeting. (This involved messages form navy vessels, an airborne RAF aircraft, a Welsh miners’ choir, a shipyard worker’s house in Northern Ireland and many other similar things3.00 The King’s Speech ).
I doubt anyone stands to attention when the Queen addresses the nation nowadays.
Hope you enjoyed this brief glimpse into Christmas in 1939.Fenella J Miller
Barbara's WarAs war rages over Europe, Barbara Sinclair is desperate to escape from her unhappy home which is a target of the German Luftwaffe. Caught up by the emotion of the moment she agrees to marry John, her childhood friend, who is leaving to join the RAF, but a meeting with Simon Farley, the son of a local industrialist, and an encounter with Alex Everton, a Spitfire pilot, complicate matters. With rationing, bombing and the constant threat of death all around her, Barbara must unravel the complexities of her home life and the difficulties of her emotional relationships in this gripping coming-of-age wartime drama.
Hannah's WarWorld War II brings divided loyalties and tough decisions in this page turning drama from Fenella Miller.
Hannah Austen-Bagshaw’s privileged background can’t stop her falling in love with working-class pilot, Jack, but Hannah has a secret. Torn between her duty and her humanity, she is sheltering a young German pilot knowing she risks being arrested as a traitor. Hannah’s worst fears are realised when Jack finds out what she has done and their love begins to unravel.
Will her betrayal be too much for Jack to forgive?
November 29, 2012
Cerne Abbas Giant...aka The Giant Penis Man
Nestled in the hills of Dorset England is a ginormous man--and penis.The other night the DH and I were surfing through popular shows on Hulu, when we came across Kim Cattrell's Sexual Intelligence. Never one to pass up on an opportunity to learn about the human body, I selected it (alas, I did not finish it...got too tired). I was pleasantly surprised when she stood on the 8-foot-long phallus of this giant--how in all of mankind had I missed this??? Have you heard of it?
It is a monument in England, seriously!!
According to the National Trust site, the figure is believed to be Hercules carrying a club...and wearing one too it seems, lol.
He is 180 feet tall. The outline is trimmed and chalked. Local folklore places the giant as an ancient figure. You can see in the picture, that there is an earthen square above his club. This is the Trendle, dated from the Iron Age, so who knows when the man sporting an enormous erection showed up. Could have been the Iron Age, or the ancient Romans who had no problems baring all, could have been a prank some couple hundred years ago from which rumor turned to folklore and we're staring at the penis drawn by some drunken dandies one night. No one knows for sure.The fact of the matter is--in Dorset England, there is a huge chalk figure with a thoroughly engorged penis, and I have just added it to my list of things I must see!
If you care to visit the site, here's a link.
November 28, 2012
Christmas in Medieval Times by Dana D’Angelo
Today I'd like to welcome guest author, Dana D'Angelo to History Undressed! She's got a special medieval Christmas treat for us :)
Christmas in Medieval Times by Dana D’AngeloThe term “Christes Maesse” was first introduced in a Saxon book in 1038 AD.
One source I found claimed that Christmas gradually became popular by a succession of rulers such as Charlemagne (800 AD), Edmund the Martyr (855 AD), and William I of England (1066 AD) who chose Christmas Day to become crowned.
Another source suggested that the Church didn’t have a fixed date for Christmas Day until the 4th century. And they chose December 25th in an attempt to superimpose on a pagan holiday that fell on the same date.
But whatever the case may be, there is no denying that the Druid or pagan traditions integrated with the Christian ones to form new ideas about celebrating and feasting during the holidays.
Over a twelve day span, the merging of these two customs allowed people to indulge in food and “misrule” (drunkenness, promiscuity and gambling), which was a large part of the pagan celebrations. At the same time, these same people were able to commemorate the birth of Christ and their own salvation.
By the time the High Middle Ages rolled around, Christmas became so wide spread that that writers of the time noted how influential people celebrated the holiday. In 1377 AD, for instance, King Richard II of England hosted a Christmas banquet that served twenty-eight oxen and three hundred sheep!
In terms of gift giving, this act was usually done between people with a legal relationship such as a tenant and landlord. While it was customary for noblemen to give tenants and workers time off to celebrate the “holy days”, it wasn’t customary for them to give gifts. However if a landlord decided to show his generosity, he may have offered coins to servants and apprentices, or treated the poor to a supper in the great hall.
However whether the people were poor or wealthy, they appreciated the holiday fare. Throughout the year, they were constantly hungry and the holidays were the only times that they could indulge in food.
Some popular foods and drinks the people enjoyed were:
Wassail– A powerful, hot drink that was made from a mixture of ale, honey and spices. The host served the drink from a large bowl. With friends present, he would cheerfully call out “waes hael” or “be well.” The friends, meanwhile, would reply with “drink hael” or “drink and be well.”Baked Mince Pie – Minced pie was baked in an oblong shape to symbolize the crib that Jesus slept in. It consisted of shredded meat, fruit, and three spices (cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg) to represent the three gifts offered to Christ from the Magi. The people held a belief that a wish made on the first bite of the pie caused the wish to come true. However if a person refused that important first bite during Christmas, bad luck would follow him in the new year.Pudding or Frumenty - Essentially a spicy porridge made from boiled wheat, currants, dried fruit, yolks and spices such as cinnamon or nutmeg. The mixture was cooled and then allowed to set before it was served.Golden Roasts - In noble homes, the cooks strived for artistry in their culinary creations. For example, to make a roasted peacock look visually appealing, they would add butter and saffron to paint the meat in a golden hue. When the peacock was finished cooking, they often redressed the gilded bird in its old skin and feathers.Boar’s Head - A boar’s head, with an apple or an orange in its mouth, was placed at the trestle table during an extravagant banquet. This rosemary and bay scented center piece was considered a noble dish and eagerly enjoyed by dinner guests.
All in all, the history of Christmas during the Middle Ages was an interesting one. While it seemed that new traditions emerged, they were in fact heavily grounded by the old ones.
The Promise - A Medieval Christmas NovellaSir Gavin the Bold appears one winter evening demanding payment for saving the life of Baron Clifton de Leraye. The knight claims that he is entitled to marry one of the lord’s three daughters.
Except the claim is called into question.
With the family’s honor at stake, and her sisters’ futures on the line, Lady Estella de Leraye does all she can to protect what little integrity the family has left, even if that means agreeing to marry the dark stranger.
As she struggles to come to terms with her plight, she finds it equally difficult to fight her growing attraction to the handsome knight. But will his charm and allure prepare her for the secret she will soon discover?
Note: This medieval Christmas romance novella is approximately 29,000 words or about 80 print pages. Although the story has romantic elements, it does not contain explicit love scenes.
Read it now!
November 27, 2012
Video of the Week: Horrible Histories -- Spartan Shield
This week's video is from Horrible Histories -- the Spartan Shield!
Funny! Enjoy!
Funny! Enjoy!
